


Razzle Dazzle 'Em

by LackingBinary



Series: Love in the First Degree [2]
Category: Transformers - All Media Types, Transformers Generation One
Genre: Angst, M/M, but only briefly, jazz is a good boy and prowl is suspicious, there's a picnic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-18
Updated: 2016-12-18
Packaged: 2018-09-09 10:53:08
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,998
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8888083
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LackingBinary/pseuds/LackingBinary
Summary: Jazz takes Prowl on a picnic. Prowl is predictably prickly and unfortunate about the whole thing.





	

**Author's Note:**

> first i wasnt gonna continue this fic series, THEN i was just gonna write some more porn, but then neither of those things happened and instead this did

It struck Prowl, as he sat in his office drawing up battle plans, that he hadn’t seen Jazz in a while. It’d been a week since their last...encounter, and in that time Prowl had caught only a few passing glimpses of the SpecOps mech. If he didn’t know better, Prowl would’ve sworn that Jazz was avoiding him. As it stood, his best guess was that Jazz was planning something. Given how Jazz’s last plan had gone, the thought filled him with equal parts dread and anticipation. 

He wondered, idly, if Jazz would show up to their weekly meeting now that he’d gotten what he (apparently) had wanted. Prowl didn’t have enough of the pieces of the puzzle that was Jazz to determine how this would play out; he had no real idea if Jazz had anything more than a passing interest in him. 

Prowl’s past experiences would suggest that, having gotten what he wanted, the other mech wouldn’t bother with him anymore. He was not, statistically, a mech that others chose to keep around. 

But Jazz was anything but predictable, and Prowl found himself at a loss. It was not a state of affairs he often experienced, and he felt a flare of irritation at Jazz for upsetting his orderly world. 

He found himself glancing at the chronometer in his HUD with increasing frequency as their usual meeting time approached. Not that there was a set schedule, really, but Jazz tended to show up around the same time every week. It was a habit that Prowl appreciated, given that punctuality was generally in short supply.

An hour came and went, and Prowl resigned himself to Jazz’s absence. An emotion tried to rise within him, something bitter-tasting and tinged with anger, but he pushed it aside. He’d had no reason to expect anything more from Jazz, and he was the only one to blame for his assumptions. 

Though Jazz had said _next time_ , hadn’t he? Had that been merely another ruse, one more insincerity piled on top of a mech who was already three-fourths facade? Despite his best efforts, such thoughts kept running through a subsection of his processor as he worked. Every once in a while, he’d be caught unawares by the memory of Jazz’s mouth on his plating and have to stifle a flash of desperate heat. It was _infuriating_. 

Two hours and fourteen minutes after the appointed time (not, of course, that Prowl had been keeping track), the door slid open to reveal a harried-looking Jazz. Prowl cycled his optics, caught off-guard; he couldn’t remember another time when he had seen the mech in such a clear state of disarray.

Jazz had been holding something when he entered, but he subspaced it with a quick flourish before Prowl could determine its identity. Then he stood in the doorway, fidgeting, as though working up the nerve to say something. 

It was all terribly strange. 

Prowl half-shuttered his optics, leaning back in his seat, a counterpoint to Jazz’s apparent distress. He'd earned the right to a bit of posturing, surely. 

“So,” Jazz said into the silence, then paused. 

“You’re late,” Prowl supplied, hoping that Jazz wouldn't point out that he could hardly be late to an informal arrangement that neither of them had ever set a real schedule for. 

“I know. I mean, I'm sorry. I didn't mean to be.” Prowl got the feeling that if Jazz hadn't been wearing a visor, he would've been averting his optics. 

That was… interesting. “I was under the impression that you never did anything you didn't intend.”

That pulled a grudging laugh from Jazz’s vocalizer. “Mech, I'm afraid you've got an inflated opinion of me.”

“If I do, it's only because that's the image you cultivate.”

“Guilty as charged,” Jazz conceded, grinning. Whatever had been bothering him, he seemed to have gotten over it quickly enough. 

“So,” Jazz began again, apparently continuing his earlier train of thought, “I wanted to talk. About last time.”

“You'll have to be more specific,” Prowl said, turning his gaze to the datapad he was holding in an effort to hide the flush that threatened to creep up his faceplates. “I do a lot of things around here.”

“Don't act coy, Prowl. It doesn't suit you.” Jazz’s voice sounded closer than it had any right to, and Prowl suspected that if looked up he'd be staring directly into Jazz’s visor. 

“I'm sure I don't know what you mean,” Prowl mumbled.

Abruptly, there was a hand on his chin, lifting his helm so that he was forced to look up. Jazz was as close as he had anticipated, but the consternation in his expression was rather unexpected. 

“Despite my profession, I don't _like_ doin’ things other mechs don't enjoy. So I wanna be sure that you ain't _regrettin’_ what happened. ‘Cause if you are, I wanna avoid doin’ more things you'll end up regrettin’. What d’you say?”

That was a confused mess of words if Prowl had ever heard one, but somewhere in there had been the intimation of a repeat performance, and that was more than he had dared to hope for. 

“‘Regret’ isn't exactly the word I'd use,” Prowl said dryly, feeling a shiver run through his frame at the memory. From the way Jazz smiled, Prowl guessed that he'd felt the tremor as well. 

“That still ain't a ‘yes,’ Prowler. I'm startin’ to think you just don't like bein’ agreeable.”

“You haven't asked anything that requires a finite answer, and I certainly don't intend to give you blanket permission to do anything you'd like.”

Jazz leaned back, releasing his grip on Prowl. “Fair enough,” he said, an easy smile stretching his lips. “I thought we’d go for a picnic.”

Of all the ways Prowl had expected this conversation to go, this certainly wasn't one of them. “A… picnic? Isn't that some sort of human tradition?”

“Sure is,” Jazz said brightly. 

“And what possible reason do we have to partake of an organic custom?”

“I dunno, fun? You can't stay cooped up in this office forever.”

“I’m a busy mech, Jazz. I can't afford to indulge in such frivolity.”

“Mm. You didn't seem too opposed to ‘frivolity’ last week.” Jazz’s smile had turned predatory, the edges of his EM field reaching out to brush against Prowl’s field like a gentle caress. 

“Also,” he continued when Prowl opened his mouth to speak, “You aren’t busy right now. I happen to know that there’s a pretty big gap in your schedule around this time. ”

“Dare I ask how you know that?” Prowl asked, feeling more resigned than irritated. 

“‘S my job! It'd be weirder if I didn't know. Anyway, you don't have anything better to be doing at the moment. So it comes down to whether you _want_ to.”

Damn Jazz and the ease with which he dismantled all of Prowl’s defenses. Prowl had always done better with imperatives, with situations where there _wasn't_ a choice, only the most logical execution of the only possible course. 

But here was Jazz, offering him a choice. _Demanding_ a choice. And the thing to be chosen was a _picnic_ of all things. He might’ve been hazy on human customs, but he knew enough to realize that it was an approximation of a friendly gesture rather than an intimate one. 

Other mechs using him for interface was a rarity, but not an unpleasant or unprecedented one. This, though? He had no idea what Jazz was hoping to gain here. Companionship he had in abundance, and from mechs far less prickly than he. Prowl might’ve had his flaws, but self-awareness had never been one of them. 

“I suppose it wouldn't be a terrible idea to get out of the office for a while. Though I must confess I've no idea what you hope to gain with all this.”

“Not everything’s about gettin’ somethin’, Prowler,” Jazz said, his voice softening. “Sometimes you just wanna do things, and that's enough.”

Prowl didn't have anything to say to that, and after a moment Jazz seemed to gather himself. “C’mon, then! What're we waiting for?”

And, without waiting for Prowl to reply, Jazz transformed into his flashy alt-mode and raced off down the hall in a display of rulebreaking that set Prowl’s dentae on edge. He wondered if it was bad form to issue a citation to the only mech who could stand him. 

With a quiet, exasperated ex-vent, Prowl followed suit.

\----

Prowl caught up to Jazz easily enough, though he had a vague suspicion that the other mech wasn't driving at his full speed. They drove in companionable silence, Prowl accustomed enough to Jazz’s mannerisms that he didn't bother to ask where they were going. 

The roads they drove along were bracketed by gently rolling green hills, which Prowl supposed he might find appealing if he had any real appreciation for organic scenery. As it was, he found himself longing for the familiar landscapes of Cybertron.

Gradually the hills gave way to rock, and other travelers petered off until they were the only two vehicles on the road. Soon, they were driving along a winding mountain road, the falling darkness requiring them to move slowly and cautiously for fear of falling from the narrow path. 

It had grown fully dark by the time they reached the summit. Prowl transformed back to root mode, his audials catching the sound of Jazz doing the same beside him. There was no light on the peak save for the faint glow of their biolights, which cast a faint luminescence over the rock-strewn ground. 

“So,” Prowl said, crossing his arms, “we're here. I must admit, I still don't understand the point of this whole excursion.” 

“You will,” Jazz said, the light from his visor accentuating the slight upward curve of his lips. 

Jazz held out his hand, and after a moment Prowl hesitantly placed his own atop it. He heard a faint, hardly audible chuckle, and then he felt Jazz’s fingers twine with his own. 

Prowl cycled his optics, gazing down at the outline of their joined hands. He found that he couldn't remember the last time someone had done so, if indeed anyone ever had. 

Then Jazz was pulling him forward, towards the edge of the cliff, and Prowl only had a moment to be concerned before they were poised on the precipice. If he tilted forward even a bit, he would topple down the steep cliffside. Somehow, though, the weight of Jazz’s hand in his own was reassuring enough that he wasn’t really concerned. 

Prowl was still looking at Jazz, trying to gauge the reason for this whole venture by the look on his face, but Jazz was looking past him into the darkness past the ground’s end. Suddenly, he raised his free hand to gesture past Prowl. 

“Look!” He said, almost impatiently, when Prowl didn’t immediately follow his movement. Rolling his optics, Prowl pulled his gaze from Jazz’s face. 

In the distance, far below, a sea of lights shone. Every few seconds, another flickered into view like a candle being lit. Soon, the lights had spread across the inky landscape like a mirror of the stars above. 

Prowl knew, of course, that the view was little more than some human town, or perhaps a city, illuminated to stave off the darkness of the planet’s night cycle. And yet, if he discarded that knowledge, the sight was similar to something he might see on Cybertron; certainly similar enough that his spark ached sharply beneath his chassis. 

“Prowl?” Jazz’s voice was tentative, his EM field a soft pulse of concern. Prowl realized, with a start, that he’d lost track of the time. If pressed, he couldn’t say how long he’d been silent. 

“I’m fine.” He said, his tone flat and cold to disguise the churning of his spark. It occurred to him, belatedly, that his usual cold veneer would do nothing to dissuade Jazz.

Predictably enough, when Jazz next spoke his voice was laced with displeasure. “I know you don’t trust my intentions, Prowl, but I wasn’t lyin’ when I told ya I meant for this to be _fun_.”

Bitterness swelled in Prowl’s intake, leaving an unpleasant taste on his glossa. “What, _this?_ ”

“Well, yeah. I happened to catch sight of it one night when I was on patrol, an’ it reminded me of home, and I thought--”

“You thought you’d show it to me? That you’d remind me of everything that I’ve lost; everything we’ve all lost?”

Prowl still wasn’t looking at the other mech, but he felt the anger in his field soften to pity. If anything, that only stoked Prowl’s own ire.

“We’ll get it back, Prowl.”

“You can’t _know_ that! Nobody can! I can’t help but run the probabilities, it’s a part of my damned processor. I’ve got all these numbers in my head, and do you know what they say Jazz?”

“Prowl--”

“Without exception, they tell me that we aren’t going to win this war. The chances that we come out on top of this whole mess, never mind that we make it back to Cybertron and that there’s a planet left to inhabit-- they’re not--” his vocalizer clicked helplessly, fritzing into static.

Prowl had forgotten Jazz’s hand, still linked with his own, but he became aware of a rhythmic pressure against his palm. Jazz was rubbing small circles into the soft plating of his hand. Prowl was tempted to pull away, but his anger had faded into something hollow that throbbed like a wound in his chest and he couldn’t find the willpower to do it. 

There was a soft click from somewhere in Jazz’s general direction, and then Jazz was tugging gently on his hand. 

“Prowl, look at me,” he said, and the faint but audible hitch in his voice was enough to convince Prowl to do so.

He cycled his optics, not entirely sure that he was processing the sight before him correctly. 

Jazz had retracted his visor, the lack of ambient light casting sharp shadows across the planes of his face. That wasn’t the startling part, though; beneath the visor, Jazz’s optics were so dim as to be almost invisible, and veined with cracks that spiderwebbed across the glass surface. 

Beneath the glass, though...

“ _Jazz_ , what happened to your optics? They’re--”

“Gone? Yeah, mech, I’ve noticed,” Jazz said wryly. But his field, drawn tight to his plating as it was, prickled against Prowl’s where they touched. 

Prowl had never been the most sensitive of mechs, but even he realized this situation required a gentle touch. So, naturally, he immediately stuck his pede in his mouth.

“How can you do your job like that? I mean you--”

Jazz’s hand tightened around Prowl’s, suddenly seeming more like a noose than a lifeline. The mech’s lifeless optics were focused on a point that was almost his face, but not quite, solidifying Prowl’s suspicion that he really couldn’t see out of them.

“I _what_ , Prowl?” Jazz said, his tone deceptively calm save for the growl that rumbled behind his words. 

For once, Prowl’s mind was blank; there were no helpful tactical suggestions to get him out of this. Here, suddenly, was the SpecOps mech who could execute life-or-death missions with ruthless, cold-sparked precision. Prowl had made the same mistake he so often chided others for: he had mistaken Jazz’s cheerful persona for verisimilitude, forgetting entirely that he was dangerous.

And here they were, poised on the edge of a cliff, where it would be easy enough to disguise anything that happened as an accident. 

If the situation were reversed, Prowl wasn’t sure that he would have restrained himself for as long as Jazz already had. 

The last, best course of action, it seemed, was repentance. With effort, Prowl forced his plating to lie flat, loosening the tense, flight-ready set of his struts.

“I… apologize.” Prowl said, giving Jazz the courtesy of meeting his ruined optics even if the other mech couldn’t appreciate the gesture. It seemed like the right thing to do. “I understand the intent behind your bringing me here, even if it did not have the desired effect. And I’m… sorry for mishandling the trust you placed in me by taking off your visor.” 

“Sure you ain’t just sayin’ that so I don’t chuck you off this cliff?” Jazz asked, but the tension was slipping, bit by bit, from his frame. 

“The thought had crossed my mind, yes, but I still meant what I said.”

“Maybe you ain’t as irredeemable as everyone seems to think.” 

There was a moment of silence, and then Jazz said, “I didn’t mean to make you vulnerable like that. I just thought you could use a lil’ somethin’ nice, y’know? A reminder of what we’re fighting for.”

Prowl hummed noncommittally, not quite willing to start discussing the war effort again. It hadn’t exactly panned out the first time. Instead, he affected a lighter tone and asked, “Did you really have a ‘picnic’ planned, or was that just an excuse to get us out here?” 

Jazz brightened, a small smile returning to his face. “Oh! Nah, I actually did have somethin’ planned besides this. Hold on a klik.”

He withdrew his hand from Prowl’s and, with a flourish, pulled a sizeable box from his subspace. Prowl’s processor helpfully identified it as the object Jazz had been holding when he walked into Prowl’s office earlier that day. Primus, but it felt like that had been centuries ago

Jazz rummaged in the box for a moment, emerging with a small box of energon candies and a bottle of high-grade. He set them on the ground carefully before returning to the box, pulling out some sort of blocky mechanical device that looked to be human in origin. 

Placing the device and the box on the ground, Jazz lowered himself slowly until he was seated with his legs dangling out over empty air. Prowl sat as well, glancing warily at the yawning darkness that waited below them. 

But Jazz was warm beside him, the quiet thrum of his engines a reminder that he was not alone on this alien organic world.

Jazz’s hand skittered along the ground, groping for a minute before it landed upon the bottle of high-grade. With a practiced motion, the mech popped it open and took a swig before offering it to Prowl. 

Prowl took the bottle, giving it a considering look before pouring a long drink down his intake. It tasted expensive, or at least not like the low-end stuff Prowl drank, when he felt inclined to do so at all. He had never really understood the point of intoxication as sport, rather than as a means of loosening the knot of stress that had wound itself inside his chest cavity at the start of this war, but he didn’t mind making an exception for Jazz. 

They sat in companionable silence, eating pieces of the candy and exchanging sips of high-grade, each mech lost in his own thoughts. Prowl felt pleasantly warm, intoxication bringing a slight flush to his faceplates. 

The night felt hazy and indistinct, as though anything done in this moment would stay forever trapped here, like an insect caught in amber. Words bunched up in Prowl’s intake; phrases that, if released into the still air, might irreparably change the fabric of his life, one way or another. 

Instead, what he said was, “The stars look nice tonight.”

“I wouldn’t know,” Jazz said. But he tilted his head toward the sky nonetheless, as though his ravaged optics might somehow register the stars’ light. 

“Why don’t you put your visor back on?” Prowl asked, evidently having learned nothing from his earlier faux pas. 

But Jazz just chuckled, inebriation seemingly having made him more forgiving.

“You really don't know when to shut up, do ya?” He said, but he sounded more amused than angry. 

“So people have told me. Repeatedly.”

“I can see that, yeah. And to answer your supremely rude question, I don't want to. Nobody else really knows about this,” he said, gesturing vaguely towards his face, “Except Optimus. And it isn't in anyone's best interest to let the rest of the crew know, so I keep the visor on most of the time.”

“Hm.” Said Prowl, who didn't terribly understand allowing anything that made one vulnerable, but at least had the good sense not to say anything about it this time. 

“Yeah, it probably doesn't make sense to someone like you, huh?”

“Not… really, no. It’d be like turning off my TacNet, even if I could do that.”

“Don't you wish you could sometimes, though?”

“I guess,” Prowl said after a moment, “That it might be nice to stop thinking about everything for a while. I couldn't, though. Too many people depend on my decisions. How would it look if someone died because I was _tired_ of doing what I was built to do?”

“That doesn't mean you ain’t allowed to be tired, Prowl. And this war will end someday, you know. Then we can all rest.”

Prowl popped a candy into his mouth in lieu of an answer. The high grade had run out, and his frame felt loose and warm. 

Despite everything, he had to admit that he wasn't having a terrible time. It was nice, the feel of engex in his lines and the knowledge that someone had bothered to arrange all this. That _Jazz_ had bothered to arrange all this. 

“Hey,” Jazz said suddenly, “Can you grab the boombox for me?”

“The--what?” Prowl’s clouded processor stumbled over the word. 

“That's just what it's called, okay? I didn't name the thing.”

“It’s more the fact that you _know_ , actually,” Prowl said, but he handed over the device that he presumed Jazz wanted. 

The mech fidgeted with it for a minute, running his hand across the surface with a familiarity only somewhat hindered by his intoxicated state. He fiddled with the dials, then, seeming satisfied with his adjustments, pressed a button on the front. 

There was a beat of silence, then a tinny sound began to issue from the small speakers. After a moment, the sound resolved itself into a slow beat and a woman’s voice began to sing, melodious in spite of the poor sound quality. 

_“It’s only a paper moon  
Sailing over a cardboard sea”_

Jazz hummed along, and after a moment he began to sing as well, rather off-key but in a voice that was nice enough.

_“Yes, it’s only a canvas sky_  
Hangin’ over a muslin tree  
But it wouldn’t be make believe  
If you believed in me” 

Prowl found himself smiling, a true and genuine smile for perhaps the first time that night. Jazz’s obvious good humor was infectious, even if the mech was slurring rather significantly. 

The song came to an end, the last few chords petering out, and the next song started. Jazz, however, seemed content merely to listen, and instead pillowed his helm on Prowl’s shoulder. Prowl looked down at him, startled, before tentatively raising a hand to trace lightly along the other mech’s helm. 

“You said the stars were nice tonight,” Jazz said, in the comfortable silence between one song and the next, “What do they look like?”

“I’m afraid I don’t really know the constellations of this planet,” Prowl said, and was surprised to find that in that moment he regretted not knowing. 

“I don’t expect ya to, mech; I asked what they _looked like_ , not what they were _called_.”

“They look...twinkly.”

“Surely you can do better than that, Prowler?”

“I’m not a fragging poet, Jazz,” Prowl retorted, but he didn’t move away. 

“Didn’t ask for that, either.”

Prowl ex-vented loudly in a show of irritation, but he settled more comfortably against Jazz anyway. 

They stayed that way for a while, Prowl trying his level best to describe what he saw, and Jazz humming in what sounded like satisfaction, though the sounds grew more and more sleep-fuzzed as time drew on. 

Neither of them noticed when the music stopped.

**Author's Note:**

> there will probably be more of this, someday.
> 
> if y'all have any ideas, put em in the comments; i may or may not accept them b/c i dont have a super set storyline for this its kinda just a Thing
> 
> ps. the song in the fic is It's only a paper moon, specifically the Ella Fitzgerald version, though I also like the James Darren one. it's in here for no particular reason other than i like it, so.
> 
> edit: my tumblr is sugar-drift if u ever want to talk to me abt fic or robots or like. whatevs


End file.
